Travel is addictive—the more I explore, the more I crave new destinations. Every journey imprints itself on my perspective, shaping my understanding of the world and fueling my desire to see more.
Travel goes beyond simply visiting new places—it reshapes who you are. Every journey reveals new facets of your identity and creates bonds with others through shared experiences. In essence, travel broadens your horizons, sparks creativity, and transforms each individual into a storyteller whose unique narrative enriches human life's diverse, global tapestry.
Nothing supports this more than my recent trip to India. It was a fantastic experience where I was welcomed to join morning prayer at the Govind Dev Ji Hindu temple, sit among the flowers at Jaipur's famed flower market, gaze at men and women
taking a sacred dip in the Ganges River, and watch the Holy Men, the sadhus, at Mahakumbh offer guidance to the devoted as they sit naked along the banks of the Ganges. Although it may sound voyeuristic, the Hindus I met were delighted to welcome me to observe and photograph their rituals. They are proud of their lives and spirituality, guiding them on their pilgrimage to the holiest of cities, Varanasi.
However, visiting developing countries is challenging and not for the faint of heart. Not every moment was beautiful, and my camera did not capture the most haunting images I saw.
Before arriving in Varanasi, I received an email that the hotel I was staying at would arrange a water taxi for arrival. The cost was roughly 50 USD. 50 dollars? I can certainly get to the hotel from the train station for less than 50 dollars! One of the benefits of exploring developing nations is that most costs are substantially less.
Departing the train station, I hired a taxi to take me to the Brij Rama Hotel. This was one of the only times I encountered someone who couldn't understand English. I showed him the location on a map, and I could tell by his body language that he didn't know where it was. Always grateful for Google Translate, he indicated he could take me to a specific point but no farther as his taxi couldn't travel past a certain location. However, he would be able to arrange travel farther. Perfect! I jumped into the cab, and off we went.
Varanasi had the same level of frenetic pace as Jaipur and Agra. It is a chaotic symphony of motion, where the blare of horns replaces turn signals, and right-of-way is determined more by confidence and less by convention. I traveled with motorcycles, rickshaws, automobiles, cows, pushcarts, and monkeys. Always monkeys. It is an indescribable fluid and unspoken choreography where quick reflexes reign supreme.
We traveled to the perimeter of where motor vehicles could go, and my driver jumped out of the taxi, leaving me in the car. He motioned towards me through the dirt-stained windshield as his hands wildly accentuated his story. He returned to the cab and invited me to join the man he spoke with. This gentleman could take me closer to the hotel, and I would have to walk the remaining distance.
My new transportation isn't a taxi, though. It wasn't an auto rickshaw or tuk tuk, either, which are pervasive throughout India. It was a bicycle rickshaw! Bicycle rickshaws are equipped to take passengers short distances and are not designed to transport luggage. I climbed on the only possible seat on the back of the bicycle. Clinging to my suitcase and backpack with every ounce of strength, simultaneously questioning all my life choices. The man struggled to pedal, as my luggage, backpack, and wine-loving physique were far more than his slight frame was used to. He powered through with all his might and stopped when the road became narrow gaps between timeworn buildings. I had to walk from this point forward. Although not far from my hotel, the walk meant meandering through narrow alleys, pulling my wheelerboard suitcase adjacent to enormous piles of trash and human excrement. I shudder to think what my suitcase traveled across. I learned that afternoon that when a hotel inquires if you would like to arrange a water taxi for your arrival, for the love of Pete, just say yes.
There are several ways to really understand a community, and one is to have a drink where the locals do. Channeling my inner Anthony Bourdain, I walked from the Darbhanga Ghat in Old City to the more modern section. I found a walk-up bar and ordered a beer. A man came over to ask where I was from. After I mentioned the United States, he asked for a more specific answer, so I told him Las Vegas. Hearing the name Las Vegas, his eyes widened, and he gasped. He continued to say, "You are a very strange one. You left Sin City to come to the holiest city in the world! Why would you come here?" Not convinced by my answer that I wanted to learn about cultures different than my own, he quickly finished his beer and left, rather bothered by me. I realized that here I am, a woman, wearing jeans and drinking a beer from a can on a city street. It was not my best move -- I will need to channel my inner Anthony Bourdain elsewhere, I suppose.
I was leaving Varanasi by taxi, and we were in the middle of the city. We had stopped at a red light, and I looked out to my right and saw a beautiful, young woman sitting on the dirt ground in the median that separates traffic. She had a child about two years old crying on her lap. As I continued to study the scene, I couldn't help but notice her blank, empty stare of despondence. She wasn't trying to console or engage with the child. She looked numb and helpless as if she had stopped trying to problem-solve. Immediately to her right was a man, lying face first, motionless on the ground. Another child was climbing all over the man like a jungle gym. Feeling helpless as I continued to study the scene, I continued looking at this dusty median strip alongside the road, and what I saw next stopped my heart. An infant, no more than three months old, lying on a scrap of fabric, not large enough to be described as a blanket. The dust, pollution, and exhaust are inescapable from their developing lungs. There is no human contact or comfort; it is just an infant lying on the ground exposed to all the elements Varanasi, India, offers.
I continued to survey the scene and counted that she had a total of five children, all existing on this swath of land between two directions of traffic. Were they able to survive on handouts from stopped motorists? Were they moving and needed a spot to rest? What will become of the baby? How will he or she develop? Can the baby overcome? What about the other siblings? What would their life be like if they were born elsewhere?
As much as I love capturing the world on my camera, some scenes can't be, nor should they be.
My dad wrote reflections about his travels; I guess you could consider him an OG travel blogger! Recently, I came across what he wrote about his visit to India in the late 1960s.
"Of all the places I have visited, India seems to have made its own deep impression. In spite of all its charm, fascination and exoticness, the bottom line for me was a feeling of utter depression and despondency. This feeling haunts me even today. I still wonder if they can ever solve the horrendous problems facing them -- abject poverty, overpopulation, starvation, flooding, droughts, political instability, religious and ethnic intolerance, and on and on..."
He wrote that in the early 1990s about his visit to India in the late 1960s, and I feel like I could write so much of that sentiment in 2025. If I could ask him today, I wonder if he would be surprised that his words capturing a visit to India in the late 1960s still resonate.
By the time I reached New Dehli at the end of my trip, the cacophony of horns seemed less harsh and jarring. Riding in a tuk-tuk entirely on the wrong side of traffic, with hundreds of vehicles approaching somehow, was less frightening. However, it did make me realize every time you get in a vehicle with someone, either in an Uber in the United States or halfway around the world in the Global South, the amount of blind trust you are placing with an absolute stranger is astounding.
India was exhilarating -- chaotic and captivating, yet heartbreaking as well. Though I may never return, a part of me will always miss it.
What experiences in her to live through your travels. These places have never been on my list, but I love hearing about them! You were a brave woman!